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Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Mar 21, 2019 20:56:18 GMT -5
Tarrare Costa Code Name: Harbinger Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
If Africa had taught him anything, it was that there were only two things he knew for sure: One was that he hated rain. The local bushmen in his platoon were fond of teasing him for it. “Em las terras do fim do mundo, é possível se afogar em terra,”he would say to himself, earning a laugh from those khoisan nearby. “Good for you, you know how to swim!” they would shout in return, letting everyone else in on the antics; it was a game to them. The second thing he knew was that he would hate to leave. Despite the violence of the torrential downpours, which soaked them so much that Tarrare felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to water, there was also the smell of petrichor that came after each cloudburst. This brought nothing if not nostalgia for his home in Portugal, and his longing peaked each time the sun showed its pale gold face after a storm, reminding him of the warm, drizzly days of spring that were waiting for him above the equator.
Dawn was breaking after another night of midnight-blue rain. The scalloped leaves of the jungle foliage dripping onto the platoon’s camouflage tarps filled the silence. Tarrare rolled onto his side, cringing at the puddle that immediately started seeping into his uniform at his hip. He sat up quickly, grabbing his knapsack and climbing out from under his tarp. Reaching his arms up and arching his back, he stretched briefly before making his way around to each of his fighters to wake them. He couldn’t quite call them soldiers, as they hadn’t been drilled like their counterparts in the Portuguese military, but at the same time, they were adept at navigating their homeland and smoking the insurgents out from their holes. And although the bushmen carried the standard G3s and combat knives, they were predisposed to use their bows and arrows and tribal spears more often, which, strangely enough, made him feel better about the leadership position he’d been granted among them. He felt safer with them, somehow, than he ever had on any assignment.
There were twenty-eight of them in the group, four of whom (Tarrare included) were not native San people. Although they always closed in their loose formation when it got dark, it still took him time to get to each of them. As they began to break camp, a flask of rum was passed from hand to hand in the midst of the work; it was a shared gift, so each man had to take meager sips. Tarrare busied himself with drying his wrinkled hands on his pants, to no avail. As the flask was about to reach him, he shook his head. The sudden hum of an engine in the distance gave him pause. The group went hush, listening for the motorcar to pass.
It did not. Its pitch was gradually increasing, getting louder, telling them it was headed in their direction. But Tarrare hadn’t called for anything from the base, and the men all knew it. Silently, they crouched beneath the underbellies of the massive jungle plants that grew at the base of the trees. Tarrare followed their lead, kneeling behind a tarp and waiting to see who it would be.
The armoured car approached in clear view. It slowed as it pulled into the clearing with a certain degree of conviction, which was something he didn’t like to see out here. His heart was pounding at his sternum as he tried to make some sense of this. As far as he could tell, there was no effort made to disguise the vehicle, which meant there probably weren’t any rebels inside. The car stopped and stood there with confidence. Whoever it was must have known the platoon was there, and that was impossible, unless it was P.I.D.E. His theory was confirmed when a man opened the passenger side-door and stepped out with the Cross of the Order of Christ and the insignia of an Aspirante-a-Oficial, a single diagonal line below an eagle, on his uniform. He wore no beret, but a flight captain’s hat. His uniform was a rich dark color, pressed, not a drop of dye or thread out of place.
“Senhor Costa. Sub-Inspector Cardoso has requested your presence at base.”
The leaves of the bushes shook as the platoon emerged from the undergrowth. They might have recognized the man’s tone as friendly, though his accent was strong when he spoke English, and Tarrare doubted the khoisan understood a lick of it. He straightened, signaling for them to stay where they were.
“Agora?” He asked this in Portuguese in an attempt to include his platoon in the conversation as much as he could, but the man wasn’t about to fulfill any hope of that. He just nodded, yes; now. Why? Tarrare had about a thousand questions for this sudden intrusion, but he knew the man in front of him would only answer with rehearsed lines. It would be better if he followed orders and bided his time. Yet he couldn’t help but ask, again in his mother tongue, “Will I be coming back?”
The aspirant didn’t seem to know the answer to this, or if he did, he wouldn’t say. He didn’t even give a little, not even a twitch of his head one way or another. He obviously thought Tarrare could come up with the answer for himself. For Cardoso to have him return to Serpa Pinta in the middle of a war, when it was going well enough, he guessed that there was something else going on. No, he wasn’t coming here again.
A voice brought his thoughts to fruition. “Alguma coisa importante?” One of the men behind him asked. Tarrare turned to face him.
“Veremos, !Koga.” Tarrare told him. We’ll see. A soft thunk told him the aspirant had opened a door on the armoured car. He likely expected Tarrare to get in without saying goodbye. The very idea filled him with disgust. He put a hand on !Koga’s shoulder and the khoisan man did the same, offering a reassuring smile that Tarrare couldn’t return. He frowned, handing his weapon over to him. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but Tarrare turned his back on his platoon and slid onto the seat in the back of the armoured car. It smelled sweet and woody, like cigars. The driver in the front sat there motionless until the man in the captain’s hat was back in his seat. They were jerked back and forth as the car started moving again, and Tarrare could imagine his platoon, returning to their work as the engine’s lowering pitch receded, but he wasn’t there with them anymore. It stung like a bullet, and his time in Africa was over just about as fast.
-
The all-terrain tires rumbled over the earth and took them to the base in Serpa Pinta about 48 kilometers away. The landscape became sparser as they drove from the tree-strewn heart of Angola to a more open area that was dotted with leadwood and marula trees. The building that served as P.I.D.E.’s branch here was a single story tall, built more into and below the ground than above. It barely rose from the dirt when one looked at it from afar, and Tarrare couldn’t say it looked inviting up close either. Its walls were reddish-brown like tree resin, and he knew that if he put his hand up to it, the brickstone was sharp enough to cut him.
They pulled up to the front, into a garage that wound downward, and the man in the suit got out and opened the door for him again. They left the driver there with the car still running, and Tarrare followed him through bright hallways. His eyes hurt by the time they reached the end. The aspirant stepped to the side to let him pass through the door alone.
The lighting was dimmer inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It wasn’t a very large room, furnished only with a dining table and chairs. It was significantly colder in here as well, and with his clothes still damp, he shivered slightly. Sub-Inspector Cardoso was sitting at the head of the table with a glass of what looked like cherry wine, the little fruits bobbing up and down each time he took a sip. He appeared preoccupied when he didn’t greet Tarrare right away, so he cleared his throat to get his attention.
“Sir?” He stepped forward, and Cardoso glanced up at him with a look that stopped him in his tracks, but it quickly softened to a neutral smile.
“Costa. Thank you for coming.” Cardoso studied him as he nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“How do you like it here?” This question was one he wasn’t anticipating, and as such, Tarrare allowed himself a frown. “Like a vacation in Brazil, sir. No other place I’d rather be.” They both knew this was exactly what the Sub-Inspector wanted to hear. Still, Cardoso tilted his head, getting up from his seat. He walked up to Tarrare as he said, “Yes, I suppose this was the best place for you.”
“‘Was’, sir?”
“Well, yes. I have a letter here for you from Lisbon. The higher-ups seem to think your talents would be better utilized elsewhere.”
This was news. Tarrare would have stood up a little straighter if it were possible. “I’m willing,” he responded, to which Cardoso nodded, satisfied.
“They thought you might be. It also may interest you to know that you have a choice to make on the matter. You can go to Lisbon, where they’ll brief you on what’s going on and outline their expectations, or…” Cardoso swirled his glass and trailed off, apparently distracted by the cherries. Tarrare said nothing, assuming the man was just fishing for interest. “…Or you can take an assignment in Goa.”
Tarrare couldn’t help himself this time. He figured it couldn’t hurt to persist. His relationship with Cardoso was good, but he knew the man was unpredictable. “Goa? What for? Goa has been Indian territory for years now. We don’t still have people there, do we?”
Cardoso shot him a warning glance, taking another sip of wine. “As long as we are at war, Costa, we will have people wherever we want. Anyways, the Commander-in-Chief asked for someone like you for the job. Which one will it be?”
Tarrare thought for maybe half a minute. Goa was unfamiliar, and if his instinct served him now as well as it always had, he could be sure of more danger there than in Portugal. “The letter is about Lisbon, then, not Goa?”
Cardoso nodded. “It has something to do with the U.N that I don’t know about.”
The room felt bigger in the silence that followed. Tarrare tried to analyze those words, trying to decide if they were real, or if he was just being sarcastic. Cardoso’s eyes were narrowed as he took another drink.
“That sounds a bit more exciting,” Tarrare finally said, guarding his tone, unsure of how the man expected him to react. Cardoso simply nodded, pulling an envelope from inside his coat.
“Instructions are printed on here. Nothing important, they just want to get you back home before they describe anything in detail.” Tarrare took the envelope. His superior smiled. “Just inform the man outside, he’s your pilot regardless, courtesy of the Commander-in-Chief.”
Tarrare glanced up from the envelope and saluted Cardoso. Turning away, he opened the door and stepped back into the hall with its blinding lights. The Aspirante-a-Oficial, his pilot, was standing where he’d left him, and the man greeted him politely.
“Senhor. The helicopter is waiting to take us to the airport.”
Tarrare gave a nod, and from there they returned to the garage where the driver was waiting to take them to the surface, back to the plains outside. A helicopter was indeed perched by the entrance there, its blades spinning so fast that the grass bowed around it. “An Aérospatiale Alouette III?” Tarrare couldn’t hide how surprised he was. His pilot smiled at the tangible awe in his voice. “Yes, sir. Consider yourself lucky to ride one.”
His pilot turned out to be another man’s co-pilot on the helicopter. After being questioned about it, the aspirante said, “Oh no, I don’t have enough hours to fly one by myself yet. Opposite for my friend here, he doesn’t have enough experience with any other aircraft except these, so we balance each other out,” and that earned a laugh from his friend. There were no seatbelts in the back where Tarrare was situated, only a loop above his seat to put his hand through. “Is part of your job to catch me if I fall?” Tarrare asked as they lifted off the ground, only half-joking. The man smiled again, “Of course, but I wouldn’t worry if I were you. These things are smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
“Vale.” He paused, debating whether or not to introduce himself. The aspirante already knew his name. “Tarrare,” he said, holding out a hand for him to shake. The man was visibly hesitant, but shook his hand after a moment. “Egídio. And this is Jacó.” Jacó waved, but kept his hands close to the controls. “Good to meet you both.”
The rest of the flight to the airport was fairly windy in the bird, which kept them quiet. At the speed they were going, they reached their destination in less than half an hour. His legs felt strangely heavy as he stepped onto the pavement after floating through the air as they had been, and Jacó gave him a pat on the back and told him he looked like a very lost penguin. As soon as the bird was shut down and secured, they began walking to a small jet, past a lone Boeing 707 with a logo that looked vaguely Turkish on the fin.
“So where are we taking you, Tarrare?” Egídio asked as they climbed the steps onto the miniature plane.
“Lisbon.” Once they were inside the jet, Tarrare began to notice how dirty he was. He left muddy prints on the cognac rug at the entrance to the pretty lavish cabin, and when he touched the back of a seat to balance himself and inspect the damage he’d done to the floor, he left a mark on the vanilla-white leather. Tarrare tried to wipe it off, but merely managed to smear it even more. He stopped, afraid to move and make it worse. Egídio nearly bumped into him as he boarded behind Tarrare.
“Alright, sir?”
“Yes, I, ehm- sorry, I’m getting mud everywhere.” Egídio followed his gaze and then looked back at him with a raised brow. “No matter. It can be cleaned.” Gives it character.” With that, the man stepped past Tarrare into the cockpit. “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d be of that mindset.” Tarrare followed, relieved, and Jacó squeezed in beside him, now in the place of the co-pilot, Egídio in the pilot’s chair. He looked back at Tarrare as he adjusted his headset and flipped a few switches.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t have the luxury to worry about cleanliness in my line of work these days.”
“You mean as a pilot? What do you transport, besides people?”
“Nothing, just people, but they’re messy enough.” Egídio gave him a pointed look as he began to go through his pre-flight checklist.
“Oh. I just thought you might care more. Your uniform looks newly cleaned.” Egídio again shrugged at this. “It is.” Despite the man’s gentle tone, Tarrare could tell he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and Jacó shrugged, so Tarrare left them there and took a seat a few rows back.
It was about a seven hour flight from Africa to Portugal. With nothing to occupy his thoughts, he tried to talk to Egídio and Jacó again, but the latter was a man of few words. He tried to ask about them and about their families, but they gave nothing up, so Tarrare took to pacing the length of the plane. Egídio, mainly, did not appreciate this any more than he had appreciated the questions, and he suggested with some forced enthusiasm that Tarrare check out the bedroom at the back. It had its own bathroom and shower, which he figured was the real reason he was sent back there. He found a change of clothes that fit him and took a warm shower for the first time in half a year. He killed an hour doing this, and another hour by lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling, closing his eyes each time the plane dipped or shuddered in a crosswind. Mostly though, the sky was easy sailing, and there wasn’t much else to distract him but his own thoughts.
This was likely the first time he’d been truly caught off-guard by his work. No other change had come as suddenly as this one. It was barely noon, and he knew he would come face to face with more unknowns before the evening fell. Why would the Commander-in-Chief, a General in the army, want someone like him? He wasn’t part of the military, hadn’t been for a decade now. He tried to remember the general’s name, knew it somewhere in the back of his mind, but was unsuccessful, and instead he decided to take the letter from Cardoso out of his jacket. The page was printed with directions arranged in a generalized fashion, instructing him to return home to Lisbon to receive his next orders. Cardoso was just the messenger, then, and didn’t know any specifics, as he’d been implying. Or, it was possible he’d been masquerading as such. Either way, he was unconcerned.
The signature at the bottom of the paper was small and illegible, almost scribbled, probably because whoever it was signed thousands of papers each day. Tarrare couldn’t imagine the kind of job where the only work his hands did was with a pen. It was strange, now that he’d had more time to process, that he’d been given a choice. Both options were opportunities, clearly, but to have the United Nations involved in only one? That was the more important one, it was bigger than just P.I.D.E. or Portugal. He was admittedly excited. However, there was a creeping fear as well. He had no doubt in his mind that he’d made the right decision, but what did they want him for? And if they needed him, why give him a choice at all? PIDE must have someone else as an alternate. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were true, and his current train of thought was now steady on a single track: he didn’t want to miss whatever adventure he was in for.
-
At some point, he must have fallen asleep, for Jacó came and woke him up to tell him they were landing soon. Looking out the window, he was nearly blinded by the sun as it nestled in the clouds they were passing through in their descent. The Portela airport was warm and welcoming with the sun’s reflected heat off the tarmac.
“There’s a car waiting for you on the other side of the airport. Good luck.” Jacó said this as they disembarked. He and Egídio stood by the door, and they would go no further. “Go well, God bless.” Egídio added with a salute. Jacó copied him, and Tarrare returned the gesture, smiling a little.
“Thank you, gentlemen. God bless.” He made his way through the familiar winding halls of the airport, trying to savor his last moments of serenity. He was about to swept from the soldier’s world back into what felt like another man’s life as a cop, of all things, and while he would not be among enemies here, he also wouldn’t have the freedom to be himself the way he could among men like Jacó and Egídio, and his platoon. There was a certain brotherhood among them even if their ranks or job descriptions differed, however he knew the narrative here was colder, less personal. He was flexible enough to survive it, and hopefully, he would only be here temporarily.
A black car was waiting for him at the front with a civilian police escort. After a five-minute ride, they were at headquarters, and Tarrare was allowed to walk inside without an escort this time, still clutching the strap of his knapsack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t have anything of monetary value inside, just identification and his knife and uniform, all of which he figured would be confiscated and put in a locker somewhere until someone decided he could have them back. P.I.D.E. looked like any old office building, with one man acting as security in the main lobby by the reception desk. It was there that Tarrare dug out his identification and they let him pass. “Mr. Abreu is expecting you. Room E, 11th floor.”
The man who had originally scouted him out and hired him from the Judicial Police was here? Tarrare hadn’t seen him since the first day he’d met him. He was what Cardoso would call one of P.I.D.E.’s ‘higher-ups’, though his actual level of authority in the organization was still unclear to Tarrare. He paused at the door, staring at the stencilling above his head, denoting the room as 11º-E. Taking a deep breath in and letting it out, he knocked twice before turning the handle. It was unlocked, so he pushed the door open gently.
“Tarrare. Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.” Abreu was standing with another man that he recognized as the Director-General. “Come, join us.” They were standing in front of a window that offered a picture of the city along the coast. The ocean looked like two parallel lines of white foam and blue water from this distance. “We were just admiring Lisboa. But now we can begin our discussion. Smoke?” Abreu offered, and lit one for himself when Tarrare declined. The Director-General sighed, but otherwise, it got very quiet, very quickly.
“If you don’t mind, sir, how have you been?”
Abreu took the cigarette from his mouth and grinned. “I guess it has been some time since you’ve seen your boss, no? I’ve been well, and I must ask you…?”
“Very good, sir.”
“Indeed.” He took a drag on his cigarette, and the Director-General cut in, “Now, I know you’re just being polite, but that’s not what got you here. You must have a lot of questions, yes?”
Tarrare nodded. “You have another job for me?”
“We don’t─ PIDE doesn’t. It’s from the United Nations as a whole. It seems that they’re impressed by our work within the Estado Novo. They want a PIDE agent to join a new intelligence agency that is separate from Portugal, or any country in the UN, for that matter.”
“And you want me to do it.”
The Director-General nodded. In his peripheral, Tarrare could feel Abreu’s eyes on him, trying to gauge his reaction.
“What will I be doing?”
Abreu answered him this time, “That we don’t know, and there’s a reason for that, which you can probably guess.”
“Because of its separate nature?” Tarrare was beginning to think he didn’t like the sound of this new agency, but Abreu nodded; he’d guessed correctly, but Tarrare didn’t truly understand what this meant for him yet.
“Exactly. So if anyone asks, you’re retired from PIDE after this conversation. This business with the UN will give us access to things we don’t have right now, people and places of importance to us, but we’re to sever our ties with you.”
“A trade,” Tarrare concluded, and this was somehow funny to Abreu, who laughed. “Now that’s what got you here! Yes, essentially, it’s a trade, but it’s worth more than you think. You’re worth more than you think. I’m sure you can what this means for everyone.”
He could, and he wasn’t about to argue with these men. This was all but set in stone. After an unnecessarily long pause, he said, “I can imagine there is a lot of trust involved.”
The Director-General nodded, looked at his watch. “Yes, Agent Harbinger. And with trust comes risk. Keep that in mind. I know you’ll do us proud. Please excuse me, I have a meeting in ten minutes. Mr. Abreu will see to it that you are taken care of. Tchau.” The door swung shut behind him, and Tarrare turned to Abreu again, opening his mouth to speak, but the man beat him to it.
“Well then, I know you’re wondering what I do here, hm? My position?” Tarrare couldn’t close his mouth, shocked that he would know this. Abreu saw the look on his face and laughed, waving smoke away from his face. “I’m import-export. I brought you in, now I’m kicking you out. Comedic, isn’t it?” Tarrare forced a smile and remained silent, so Abreu continued,
“So all I know is that this new agency is in Norway. I’ll be sending a letter to your residence with the coordinates. You’re to be there by March 2nd. I’m sorry to say the rest is up to you. There’s nothing we can do to help you once you don’t work for PIDE. Basically, as soon as you walk out that door, you don’t belong to us anymore.”
There was a lot of information at once, and he absorbed it as he’d been taught, without adding his own thoughts or emotions, which would come later. Abreu looked at him with something akin to pity. Was that sympathy he detected? “Go home, Tarrare. Get your affairs in order. You have nearly a whole month before you need to be there. Think of it as a break.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of your files are going ahead of you to Norway. You’ll be effectively… erased from Portugal, shall I say.” Upon hearing this, a sadness that he couldn’t stifle awoke in his chest, chilling the air in his lungs like a frost.
“Yes, sir.
“Listen, Tarrare, if for some reason they don’t like you, I hope you know you have a place here. We could still use you.”
“I’m grateful, sir.”
“And there’s always the offer in Goa. I assume you know how to operate a telephone to reach our receptionist. I’m going to let you keep your contacts for emergencies, but that’s all. Stop by the desk and have the guard check your bag before you leave. Dismissed.”
It was so succinct he almost missed it. He blinked, dropped his gaze to the floor. “Thank you, sir.” Tarrare made his way back to the lobby, where the security officer did a quick inspection of the material possessions in his knapsack. He replaced each thing before handing it back to Tarrare, minus the knife. The woman at the desk smiled and told him to have a good day. She had a vibrant red on her lips, and her perfume was reminiscent of maçã-do-amor, candied apples of love. She seemed so oblivious, he had to give her half a smile in return before he walked out the door.
He expected it to feel different, standing on the sidewalk with nothing to rely on, nothing to cover him in case of bad weather. Instead, it felt much the same as when P.I.D.E. had been his protection. Maybe if I get farther away. He walked through sloping streets to Bairro Alto, and his heart beat steadily on, as if he was unafraid. Nothing seemed to bother him, except for the fact that nothing seemed to bother him. Perhaps it was his mind, protecting its own sanity until it was safe at home. He couldn’t think beyond the next few steps to his lessor’s door.
“I need my key.”
“Good Lord, Talio, I didn’t recognize you for a second there. Hold on, I’ll grab it.” He disappeared from the door frame, and Tarrare glanced both ways down the street, inspecting the windows in each of the terraced apartment blocs. Most of them were split-level, so the windows on the ground floor were covered with black metal bars, while the windows on the first floor were open to let in the cool breeze of the encroaching night.
“How’s the war going? I take it everything is alright, seeing as you’re back so soon?” The landlord dropped his house key into his outstretched palm. “Yea, everything is alright. Have a good night.”
The key turned in the lock with a smooth, bland click. Everything was as he’d left it six months ago, sparingly furnished and immaculately impersonal. He leaned against the door for a minute, breathing in a dark musty smell. He went around and turned everything on. There was nothing in the kitchen with which to make supper, and he resolved to get groceries tomorrow, seeing as he had a few weeks before he would leave again. Tarrare dropped his bag on the bed upstairs and opened the window to let a lazy wind in.
Disappointment crept up on him as soon as he started to unpack and he saw the metal tab on his uniform with the name of his combat unit on it. Though he was looking forward to this new agency, he couldn’t help but think how different an environment it would be for him. It was clear the United Nations perceived P.I.D.E.’s operations as espionage, and perhaps this was true, as they were the secret police, but this didn’t quite align with Tarrare’s views of himself as an agent of P.I.D.E. He was a political police officer, a soldier. He wondered if he would fit in at Norway. He wondered if he would miss the fight, which felt so deeply engraved within him that all he could do was hope it would console him regardless of where he was. He hung his uniform in the closet with its beret and neck scarf, now artifacts with the rest, and though it was still early, his internal clock was an hour ahead, so he crawled into bed and worried himself to sleep.
-
A knock on the door woke him suddenly. He glanced at his watch to find it was nearly nine in the morning. Shoving off his sheets, he stumbled downstairs to take the chain off and unlock the door. The landlord was standing there with a handful of envelopes.“Got your mail while you were gone. The top one’s from today.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You seem preoccupied, Talio. Are you sure you’re alright?” Tarrare looked at him and nodded. It was the kind of question an acquaintance asked. The man had no real investment in the answer he was given, so he nodded back, “let me know if you need anything.” He stepped away from the door, back to his own home, and Tarrare opened the letter from Abreu with the coordinates first. ‘Permanent reassignment for the foreseeable future.’ That was a nice way of putting it.
Over the next week, he went about his business preparing, and only once did he venture out into the streets for no reason except to wander, a rare treat. He didn’t have much to pack. He lived as he traveled, and that was light. About a week before the date he was due in Norway, he slid a note through his landlord’s mailslot with his house key and a bundle of money for his rent attached. Have to leave again for some time, please hold my key for me. Thanks again. Then he was on his way again, to the airport and ultimately to Norway.
He’d made a list of the things he would need to do once he arrived, which he thought spoke to the unusual nature of his “retirement”. He never made lists, never needed to, but he was nervous of forgetting something. Norway was bigger than Portugal; he’d have to find someplace to stay and then he’d have to learn how to navigate his surroundings. He wouldn’t be able to reach most locations on foot as in Lisbon, and he wouldn’t have his support system to aid him. Beyond these two items, Tarrare assumed the new agency would be in touch with him rather quickly, and his list would likely continue growing in his uncertainty.
-
It was snowing when he stepped off the plane in Norway, the kind of expansive snowfall that came in flurries with big crystal flakes. He was seeing snow not for the first time, but it might as well have been. Gonna need more than one layer of clothes here, he mused, sticking his tongue out to catch the snowflakes as he made his way down the street. Besides the cold, which he didn’t mind, the horizon was practically invisible, hidden behind mountains with foreboding, ashen faces. They peered at him like a bird in a cage. Harsh, he thought, compared to Lisboa’s open coast, anyway. Unable to read many of the street signs or those on buildings, Tarrare had to rely on passerby that understood English to find a place to stay. He ended up at what could have been either a motel or a hostel, depending on the translation, and after determining its safety, allowed himself to set down his duffel and to rest in the chair in his room.
Two days later, an official invitation was delivered to him from the new agency. How they knew exactly where he was, Tarrare didn’t want to know. It was easier to focus on his list: he would need a means of transportation, and, apparently, something to wear that was suitable for the “gala” on the invitation. Tailored ensembles weren’t exactly his cup of tea, but the invitation was pretty clear on the dress code. This meeting was a formal event, so he figured it would serve as an introduction of sorts. The night before, he shaved his face after half a year in the jungle with nothing but a knife to keep his beard trimmed to a respectable length, that is, as short as he could get it while in the bush.
The fact that he wanted to make a good impression did not prevent him from arriving late. It was the last thing he intended, but Tarrare pulled up to the gate at 4:04 (according to his watch) and was regarded with suspicion until he was asked to show his invitation. “So sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, and the guard waved him through. The driveway brought him to the front of the mansion and around a fountain, before it wove around to the back, tracing the property outline in loving curves until it reached a wider lot where dozens of other cars were parked. As he walked quickly to the doors, he found himself tipping back his head at a painful angle to be able to see the gables on the roof. It was a huge mansion, more elegant than any office building he’d ever worked in, and it seemed likely that he would get lost before he found the right room.
It turned out he didn’t have very far to go. He knocked on the ornate doors and waited. He was surprised when, less than twenty seconds later, a man dressed as wait staff answered and let him in. He pointed Tarrare through another pair of closed doors. He stepped into the ballroom as quietly as he could, just in time to hear a man at the front of the room, establishing his prominence, along with three others with him. Offices on the second floor, noted. The man, the Director of the Agency, had a glass in his hand, but Tarrare didn’t hear him give a toast at the end of his speech, brief and concise as it was in formalities. Tarrare was, however, more concerned with finding his seat and not drawing attention to himself. From what he could gather, the evening was now a free-for-all, but it wouldn’t be much fun if he didn’t know where he was supposed to be. He supposed it didn’t matter as much now that the Director was done, and others were getting up and walking around to talk to each other, as if they already knew each other, because nobody was that outgoing, but Tarrare decided it would be best for him to stay where he’d been put. If nothing else, it would force him into a conversation with someone, since he couldn’t claim to know many people, or spies, outside of the Iberian peninsula.
He found his place, a table near the wall, just as the conversations started to reach a normal, unabashed volume. He caught a few strange glances from some of the agents around the table. Nothing he couldn’t fix with a smile. The table was set and the wine was already poured in glasses that looked like they had a rim of gold. Seems a bit extravagant. Why go to the trouble? He picked his up and gently held it a little higher to be in the light, inspecting it, more curious to see if it was real than he was interested in drinking it. He was startled when the man next to him said something, and he quickly put the glass down, glancing at the placard in front of the man to determine his background. Austrian. If the acronym printed there was supposed to cause a neuron to fire and connect it with something else, it failed. Then again, he had nothing when it came to information in his brain about anything outside his realm of experience. That was something he would have to change, he realized, before forcing himself to listen intently to what the man was saying.
Tarrare nodded in agreement, appreciating the honesty. He could relate: whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. A party? It was almost cliché, but he wasn’t complaining. Lorenz Fischer. The man laughed at himself and Tarrare smiled in response as he shook the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Lorenz. I’m Tarrare Costa.” He glanced sheepishly out at toward the center of the room before facing Lorenz again. “I was a bit late getting here; did I miss anything?”
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Post by 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚝 on Jun 16, 2019 17:23:00 GMT -5
Tarrare Costa Code Name: Harbinger Status: Alive - Location: Norway - Mission: n/a
The Austrian kept smiling at him as he spoke, and Tarrare was compelled to smile back when it was appropriate, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to. Many of the faces at the tables around them were serious, calculating. Even during their own conversations, he could see their eyes wandering, sizing each other up. He supposed he was doing the same thing, but he really just wanted a better idea of what he was walking into, sceptical now that he could sit and observe briefly. He could hazard a guess: most of the agents here were looking for other faces they recognized. He didn’t think it likely that he would be fortunate enough to know anyone, so there was no point in scanning the room in the lull of his exchange with Lorenz. Of course that didn’t stop him from doing so. More than anything, it gave him a chance to learn the layout of the room, marking doors and windows and chandeliers in his memory. It gave him a basic estimate of the number of tables and chairs, and therefore the number of people, including waitstaff, though they moved about so frequently he didn’t spare them too much attention. He appeared relaxed, but upon hearing Fischer give his perspective on the event, Tarrare tilted his head, smile fading slightly in thought.
“How can they tell how well an organization will hold up based on interaction in a setting like this?” He asked, more to himself than to Lorenz, who didn’t seem to have an answer anyway. This didn’t feel like a testing grounds to him, but maybe there was a purpose to that. It seemed ineffective compared to his introduction at PIDE, which had been comparable to being thrown into a pit with other gladiators and told to work together to kill some lions. If they worked well together, they succeeded. If they didn’t, then they failed, and they learned from their mistakes and/or received punitive action. Trial and error was a worthy description for Lisboa’s methods. This, to him, felt cautious and paranoid. Just because the agents got along well at the party, where they were obviously expected to play nice anyway, didn’t mean they were compatible in the field. At least that was how he saw it. But the Director and his associates probably knew better. It was the United Nations, after all. They had probably gone over everything in planning for this agency, and he knew they were not to be underestimated.
Lorenz responded in a way that he hadn’t been expecting, but Tarrare was glad for it all the same. He smiled again, appreciating what he assumed was an honest confession.
“I agree. Better to get your hands dirty than sit at a typewriter all day.”
Fischer seemed personable and real, and was perhaps the closest to the kind of people Tarrare was used to. Whether this was just an act for the party or not, didn’t matter. Many of the agents at their table were not even attempting to act interested in starting a conversation or, God forbid, developing a relationship with people who were supposedly their enemies. He glanced at one of them as they ran a finger over the rim of their glass, bored. Lorenz was at least trying to interact with someone. He could respect that. He decided he liked Lorenz just fine as a potential ally.
There were glasses of water at the table as well as wine, but the pitcher in the center held slices of cucumber and citrus fruits floating amidst the clarity, which made him think twice about taking a sip. Movement in the corner of his eye from Fischer brought his attention back. Tardy? It was almost amusing, the way he talked, like a schoolteacher. His eyes were just about as stinging as a ruler on the knuckles, too. They were hard and neutral and didn’t give much away even when he smiled and wrinkles appeared around his eyes. He sounded nonchalant, but Tarrare didn’t trust a carefree perspective; there was almost always something hiding behind it.
“Yes, well, I was rather hoping they didn’t notice.” Tarrare hadn’t seen enough of the Director to form any of his own opinions of the man, but he didn’t doubt that which Lorenz offered. It would make sense for someone as prominent and powerful as the Director to be a bit harsher than the people he had worked for in PIDE. He was no longer dealing with just one agency and his bosses anymore, and he wouldn’t have the same mobility as in Portugal, where PIDE was such a large, forceful (if a bit mystified) part of the government that no one questioned anything they did. There had been little reason to tread carefully as long as he was in his home state. Here, he was beginning to realize, he would have to be on his guard.
For the first time, he doubted that he was ready for something new like this. His career in Lisboa had been impersonal enough. It was required: PIDE was counterintelligence, counter-insurgency. The Estado Novo’s secret police, meaning their activities were mainly political up until and including the war, yes, but impersonal all the same, which was why he’d enjoyed going back to his roots, back to the wilderness with the military in Africa. This agency is just another game you have to play. It felt far colder, however, which he hadn’t thought possible. He had been a valued employee in Portugal, but here? It sounded like the Agency would treat their agents like chess pieces. Lorenz was likely right about one thing: the director wouldn’t waste his time with trying to correct them if they failed. They would be sacrificed as pawns were with no regret or mercy. Suddenly his prospects felt a lot bleaker. What kind of sacrifices would they be expected to make? Could they be worse than those he’d already made? Anything was possible and he would have to get used to that. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friend along for the ride.
What if I make a mistake? What kind of consequences did they have in store for those agents that did step out of line? Not that Tarrare would ever consider it. What if there’s an accident? His skin felt hot, like someone was watching him. He blinked, looking at Lorenz, who he discovered was looking back expectantly, and he remembered that he’d been asked a question. Tarrare would have smiled apologetically for the delay if he hadn’t been so uncomfortable and embarrassed. It seemed, with the look he was giving Tarrare, that Lorenz would see right through an insincere smile at that moment, so Tarrare let out a breath in a way that was truly discontented.
“Hm? Oh, sorry, I- it was rather stupid, actually, I just underestimated the amount of time it would take to get here. I’m not used to these winding-type streets, or ice, for that matter. A strange experience for me, I’m sure you can believe.” He was more than relieved after their conversation that he hadn’t gotten lost as well. How much worse would this have gone? He wasn’t often late, but first impressions were important. He couldn’t say where he stood with the Director or any of his comrades, but even if they didn’t like him, he reminded himself he still had a home to return to. Abreu had said it himself. Whether he’d said it because he felt obligated to, or if he meant it because it was true, Tarrare didn’t know. But now he was starting to think that if he could get Fischer to like him, even remotely, he would feel secure enough here in knowing he had one friend. It would be better than having none.
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